


Innocence

by ElenaCee



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV First Person, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:16:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenaCee/pseuds/ElenaCee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This, then, is the day that finally and irrevocably makes me a criminal in the eyes of the law."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic back in 2007. It has proved quite popular on my Y!Gallery, so I'm cross-posting it here. Also posted on my LJ.

This, then, is the day that finally and irrevocably makes me a criminal in the eyes of the law. No longer can I cite mitigating circumstances such as youth or the altered rules of war. I have committed sodomy, deliberately, joyfully. Holmes is slumbering in my arms, exhausted, drained mentally and – oh God yes – physically. My own body is still tingling. I may be damned, but I have never been happier in my life.  
  
I cannot recall the day when I first began to desire him; it may even have been the very day of our meeting. It is certainly true that I was smitten within the first fifteen minutes of making his acquaintance. His exuberance, his undeniable brilliance, the incredible appeal of his slender physique and angular features, the power contained in his regard – all of these traits, individually, would have served to entice me. Taken together, and combined with the underlying sense of innocence and vulnerability so at variance with the rest of the man, they transformed him into something that was utterly irresistible for me.  
  
I do not think he suspected. For all his cleverness and quick-wittedness in spotting them in the inter-personal relationships of his fellow men, he is completely oblivious to erotic undercurrents when they concern himself. Spurred on by this realisation, and unable to help myself, I flirted with him. I touched him even as he touched me, the way men do who merely share brotherly affection, the way children do in their innocence.  
  
We even shared a bed once, during a particularly harrowing case out in the country, or rather we did not, because Holmes was once again too keyed up to sleep, and I did not dare relax my guard in such close quarters for fear my uncensored body would betray me as I slumbered.  
  
It was then that I realised that something would have to happen soon, or else I should lose my mind. And so, today, gathering every scrap of courage that I possess, I placed my heart, my reputation and my very existence in his hands, and I talked to him.  
  
I bade him not to interrupt me until I had finished, and then I told him everything. I told him how sharing his presence and his cases fulfilled me, how every glance he bestowed upon me quickened my heart and gladdened my soul, how every casual touch we shared inflamed me, how I dreamed of him nightly, how losing him would be the end of me. He listened, silently, the astonishment in his eyes confirming that he had suspected nothing.  
  
When finally I ran out of words, and finding myself neither summarily evicted from our lodgings nor flat upon my back with the imprint of his knuckles upon my chin, I dared reach out and gently stroked the backs of my fingers along his cheek.  
  
His eyes fluttered closed, and he shuddered. When he opened them again, the expression in his eyes was one of such helpless confusion that it dawned upon me: Of course Holmes would not condemn me because I was a deviant. The morality of the matter was of no concern to him. No, it was the basic aspect of dealing with feelings and the physical component of being touched that was difficult for him. Simply by caressing him, I was in danger of pushing him past his limits.  
  
But Sherlock Holmes is a man possessed of extraordinary courage. Even in the face of something so alien to his being, so contrary to his nature, he did not flee or evade. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “For the first time in my life, I want this. Here, now, with you. Only with you.”  
  
Was there a better way to react to that than to kiss him? I could not think of one, so I did just that – gently, tenderly, a cautious exploration first of his lips, and shortly thereafter, to my great joy, of his mouth.  
  
I should surely have drowned in his kiss (such a clichéd way of describing the experience!) if he had not suddenly pulled back, breathing heavily, eyes unfocussed. “Wait,” he gasped, “wait. Too much.”  
  
I was alarmed, which was not aided in any way by the fact that he allowed me, unresistingly, to guide him to the settee, where he sat, his arms wrapped around himself as if afraid he would fall apart if he did not physically hold himself together.  
  
“How can people stand it?” he whispered. “How can they willingly subject themselves to something so disruptive? Watson, what are you doing to me?”  
  
“It was just a kiss, Holmes. Did you not enjoy it?” I asked anxiously. I could never force him. If he had told me no, he did not enjoy it, I should never try again. The thought of causing him anguish, of upsetting the careful balance of his mind, even with the best intention, is not one I wish to contemplate.  
  
But he did not. He closed his eyes briefly before uncurling his long, slender frame and looking at me with determination. “I am not certain. I think I did, or at least, my body did. My mind ceases functioning when you touch me like that. My thoughts scatter like startled sparrows. And yet... I wish to be close to you in this way, Watson. It seems the correct thing to do.” He smiled ironically. “Even though society would certainly disagree.”  
  
“I don't care,” I said roughly. “I love you. Society can go hang itself.”  
  
He laughed noiselessly. “Ever the romantic, my brave, rebellious Watson. But I find myself in complete agreement with the sentiment, if not the wording.”  
  
“We shall go slow,” I promised. “I shall stop immediately if you give the word.”  
  
He gave a wincing smile. “You may find yourself stopping more than starting,” he warned. “But still, I want this. If you think it is worth the effort, I can do no less. I am yours. Teach me.”  
  
My heart swelled impossibly at those words. Has ever a man been entrusted with something more valuable than that?  
  
I led him to his bedroom, for I wanted him to feel as safe as possible, as safe as one can only feel in one's own bed. There, I locked the door, and undressed, slowly, giving him every chance to change his mind. He watched me, eyes hooded, while following my lead and undressing as well. I think he was more afraid in those minutes than he would have been had he been facing an armed criminal.  
  
For myself, I watched every inch of him that was bared to me with intense hunger and deep appreciation. He is exquisite, and, I have no doubt, completely unaware of it. His long, tightly muscled limbs call to mind a colt; his ribcage, easily visible beneath muscles and tendons, together with his lean abdomen that holds not an ounce of fat, is akin to that of a greyhound. Upon seeing my delighted gaze, he smiled briefly, uncertainly, clearly at a loss as to why I was looking at him like that.  
  
Innocent.  
  
When we were both nude, I followed my impulse and slowly enfolded his deceptively delicate slimness in my arms. Again, he gasped and shuddered at the contact, prompting me to keep most of my body away from his and merely stroking the back of his neck with one hand while the other steadied him around the shoulders. Only long minutes later did his breathing even out somewhat, and I began to understand what he had meant with his warning.  
  
And another thought occurred to me; could it really be merely inexperience that was making him react so strongly?  
  
“Sorry,” he whispered, interrupting my musings. “Could we sit down? I am afraid I shall be unable to keep to my feet for much longer otherwise.”  
  
Silently cursing myself for my thoughtlessness, I made him lie down, arranging myself next to him upon his narrow bed, careful not to crowd him while maintaining the contact of my one hand. I was unwilling to relinquish what little ground I had gained.  
  
“Maybe we should do this the other way around,” I suggested, going with my gut feeling. “I shall lie back, doing nothing, and you can explore me. Do whatever you like.”  
  
He nodded guardedly, looking curiously at my brawnier body with its copious body hair, and then he began as thorough an erotic examination as I have ever been subjected to. Far from clumsy, his touch was delicate and insistent at once, and his keen observation of my reaction enabled him to know what to do, repeatedly, varying his touch just the way I needed it until I was fiercely aroused and hardly able to keep lying still.  
  
Feeling I was about to finish, I reached for his hand that was busy at my flesh, with the intention of stopping him, but he whispered, “I will not hurt you. Let me do this for you.” His fingers gave a particularly inventive twist, and the force of my climax momentarily blotted out my reason.  
  
When I opened my eyes once more, I found my friend hovering over me, regarding me with an expression half of worry and half of satisfaction. “That was good, wasn't it? I could not tell for certain from your expression.”  
  
“Very good indeed,” I assured him, smiling, and, without thinking, I reached out and pulled him down to lie close to me.  
  
He tensed all over. But before I could curse myself for giving in to my impulse and apologize, his muscles relaxed all at once, no doubt commanded by his extraordinary willpower, and he lay quietly in my arms. I let out the breath I had been holding and gently stroked his back, glad to find that he was accepting this caress now without flinching.  
  
“May I do the same for you?” I finally asked softly. I could feel the heat and hardness of his flesh where it touched my thigh and knew that he was not unaffected by the proceedings.  
  
“It would seem only fair,” he replied with a seriousness quite at odds with the situation.  
  
Thus given leave to touch him as he had me, I began my own exploration, finding him delightfully responsive. So responsive he was, in fact, that more than once I had to halt for a moment or two to allow him to regain his composure and to steady his breathing. It would not do to make him hyperventilate.  
  
As his ardour rose, he began to lose some of that wariness that had informed his regard. Still, I felt obliged to tell him to relax.  
  
He snorted. “I am amazingly relaxed, Watson, all things considered,” he said with something of his familiar ironic tone of voice.  
  
I remained silent for a while as the meaning of his words slowly became clear to me. It had not escaped my attention that his pliancy was deliberate, and that, whenever my hand approached the cleft between his buttocks, either his breathing accelerated, or his muscles tensed, and I could tell that this was not due to erotic excitement. There was only one conclusion possible: He was not untouched – quite the contrary. His innocence had been taken by force, and his strong reaction to my ministrations was due to his injured soul fearing to be hurt again.  
  
Finally, I could stand it no longer. The intimacy of the situation made me disregard my usual reticence towards him, and I blurted out, “What happened? Who was it that hurt you?”  
  
Now it was his turn to remain silent. I bit my lip, certain that I had ruined it. But he did not move away nor stop my hand when it eventually resumed its stroking that had, by that point, turned into caressing rather than arousing touches.  
  
“I shall tell you if you promise not to stop,” he finally said. “It was a long time ago, and it is time that I finally banished it from my memory.”  
  
“I promise,” I said solemnly, running my hand in slow, soothing strokes along his back where I could feel each individual knob of his spine.  
  
“It was my father,” he whispered very softly.  
  
Now I understood why he had extracted that promise, for at those words I was hard-pressed not to jump up with the force of my reaction.  
  
Words would not come. Even now, as I am writing this, I cannot think of anything that will adequately convey the shock, disgust, anger and compassion that possessed me in rapid succession. My hand continued to move without my conscious thought as I swallowed hard against a sudden upsurge of nausea. “The blackguard,” I forced out. “The miserable, thrice-damned bastard.”  
  
He snorted again, but it sounded almost like a sob. “Good old Watson,” he said, turning and burying his face against my neck. “If anyone can undo it, you can. Please. Do... it.”  
  
He did not need to clarify what it was he meant me to do.  
  
I had not hoped to go this far, but optimistic anticipation had fortunately bade me to bring some lubricant, and so I had everything I needed to gently and thoroughly prepare my friend. He lay still throughout my ministrations, his face deliberately void of expression, his eyes closed, hardly twitching as I stretched him. And it filled me with no small measure of pride to find that, in spite of my recent climax, I was once again quite ready for him.  
  
“That's enough of that,” Holmes finally admonished me, for all the world as if we were sitting together before the fire and I was boring him with world politics. “Kindly get on with it, will you?”  
  
Knowing that he was merely aiming to distract me and himself from his very real fear, I said nothing and did as he asked.  
  
His set expression did not alter when I entered him. I was glad about the fact that I had come to glory once already, for otherwise the careful, slow penetration I was attempting would have taxed me beyond my limits. Amusingly, I was too careful even for Holmes. With a snarl of impatience, he at last grabbed my buttocks and pushed me all the way in, grunting a little in what might have been pain, but what I suspect was at least in part something else.  
  
We stared at one another, overwhelmed, I think, with the reality of the situation.  
  
“This is as bad as it gets,” he said softly, as if to himself.  
  
“It will get much better,” I whispered. To demonstrate, I carefully shifted inside him.  
  
My aim was good, for he gasped and looked at me in astonishment. “Again.”  
  
I complied. This time, a soft cry was forced out of him, and his expression of surprise dissolved into one of rapture.  
  
“I didn't know,” he gasped, his face and eyes finally reflecting all his feelings, and I could gauge for myself how much this was affecting him. “Again.”  
  
Again I complied, and I kept complying until he clenched and exploded around and against me. My own completion was triggered by his, and then he clung to me, shivering and making the most endearing mewling sounds.  
  
I felt I had cause to feel pleased with myself. “I assume that did not hurt a very great deal,” I finally said with, I fear, a goodly amount of smugness in my voice.  
  
He shook his head. “Thank you, Watson,” he slurred, already half asleep. “Once again, your assistance has proved invaluable.”  
  
The last word was mumbled against my shoulder, and seconds later, his breathing evened out.  
  
And so I am half sitting, half leaning awkwardly against the headboard with Sherlock Holmes asleep upon my left shoulder, and writing this almost illegible confession that, hopefully, no-one will ever read. And yet, let it be known that I am feeling no shame, only an intense joy and relief, and the hope that, now that we have come this far, this will remain no isolated incident.


End file.
